


In Some Sad Way I Already Know

by hedgerowhag



Category: Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Featuring: paranoia not being clyde’s best friend, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Strangers to Lovers, and hux being a perv, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 21:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16048856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedgerowhag/pseuds/hedgerowhag
Summary: A split second answer can either be a mistake or a chance. He might find himself in the trailer tomorrow morning with Mellie or Jimmy, explaining why they need to keep their heads low. Even though it been a whole year. Or Clyde might find himself with an opportunity, something to replace the thoughts that keep him company in the early morning.





	In Some Sad Way I Already Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youdidnotseeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youdidnotseeme/gifts).



> Title from ‘like real people do’ by hozier

A suburban house has no right being so loud. It’s one of the the new builds, with fresh windows and floors, efficiently constructed walls so thin Clyde hears the tree foliage shake with the screaming of the cicadas. It’s a street of the same glossed houses that looked nice on the brochure when the estate agent suggested taking a look at the new constructions.

Clyde pushes the covers down to the foot of the bed and turns onto his side to feel the cool patch of the mattress. The springs creak and pop under his ribs. The window squeaks and the light of a passing car pushes through the blinds, echoing on the ceiling. Clyde stares at the alarm clock on the beside. It is five in the morning. The sky is starting to pink.

He is losing his last chance to fall asleep; He knows that as soon as the light comes he won’t be able to close his eyes. It will get too warm, too humid to try keeping the windows closed from the insects.

Clyde turns over, again. The ceiling fan is making its slow rounds. He pulls the covers up to his shoulders. A car is backing out of the drive. The sheets are damp with sweat. Clyde’s neck is itching from his hair sticking to his skin.

The mattress pops as Clyde kicks off the covers and sits up. He is surprised to find how sore his eyes are when he could barely keep them closed.

There is no use staying in bed. He gets up and walks to the door, but struggles to balance and reaches for the frame. Clyde swallows on his tongue when he keeps falling forward, scraping the uneven curve of his stump on the white panel of painted wood. Clyde turns and grabs for the wall, pulling himself up against it.

Holding his breath, Clyde stares down the corridor. Pink lights paint the walls, there are still no pictures up.

In the living room, the couch is stationed between brackets of plastic crates. After months, the house would feel like a impermanent placement – Clyde was sure that any week he would be back at the trailer. So he never shifted anything out of the packing boxes. Eventually, Mellie replaced them with plastic ones.

Somewhere in there, Clyde had seen DVDs. No one could be sure who chose what or when it was bought, so Jimmy and Mellie decided to unload most of the collection onto Clyde. He picks out the first thing he reaches. It’s a romance – ‘One Day’. The ‘Buy 1 Get 1 Free’ sticker is still on it.

With a lumped pillow packed under his head, Clyde lies on the couch. He keeps track of the scenes by the colours as his thoughts overrun the dialogue. The plot dissolves in an image of the sea at night, the docks and the moon on the water. Something about teenagers in love, never growing out of feelings. Clyde melts into the cushions, stare glazed.

His t-shirt is bunched on his back. With half a mind he tugs down the edge. The scene on the screen changes to the sunlight, Clyde doesn’t notice. Toying with the hem, Clyde slowly pushes his hand up his t-shirt, pressing on his stomach, drawing through the hair peeking over the waistband of his shorts.

He is tired enough for his thoughts to scatter to places he wouldn’t rationally acknowledge. Like wanting to be found while lying there on the couch, pressing fingertips down his shorts, waiting to be covered by the warmth of another body.

  
Clyde turns his head to the side to face the back of the couch and closes his eyes. The TV is a muffle, the sounds of the outside are barely static. Clyde is pushing his hand down his shorts that he still wears out of habit – despite being alone. He opens his thighs and rests his hand on the hot juncture of his groin.

He always had a bad habit of staring and he had been stupid about it in the army, surrounded by men – both peers and superiors – in uniform. It was easy to excuse his flushed face, he just had to be careful not to make someone close his centre of attention. He always felt like a cliché, making moon eyes at the sergeants.

On the couch, in the glaze of the early morning light, Clyde imagines behind pressed down into the couch. Hands on his waist, his hips, a kiss against his ear. Clyde has his hand on his cock, stroking it with a slack fist, for once unashamed of the rustling clothing and his heavy breathing.

One foot slips off the cough as Clyde squirms to open his legs. Sweat sticks to his t-shirt across his back and under his chin. He feels short for air as his mind bounces irregularly, getting lost on the thought of being held against someone, instead of being the one to hold someone up.

The pace drops as Clyde’s face slowly becomes slack, losing lines with the cinch of his jaw. His hand is still in his shorts, one leg hanging off onto the floor. He is finally asleep. The cicadas are still screaming in the trees.

 

A buzz trembles down the corridor. It’s a sound Clyde recognises too easily. His legs are cramped and his back pops all the way down to his ass while he stands.

He wobbles into the walls of the corridor as he searches for the bedroom. Someone is already mowing their loan. The curb scratches against a hub cap as a car parks on the street. Clyde turns off the alarm, missing the button several times under his thumb. His hair hangs in his face as he stares at the unmade canvas of the bed.

 

The doors aren’t open yet. It’s the final shuffle before they light up the sign of Duck Tape.

Clyde is stood behind the bar, both arms stiff at his sides, hips leaning on the counter, eyes closed – Like he can catch another lick of sleep. The staff walk around him, keeping their footsteps quiet until they are out of earshot. He doesn’t even get to a doze when the first customer comes through the door and Clyde opens his eyes, stepping away from the counter.

The evening manages to stay quiet, it’s a week day after all and it takes a little longer for the tables to start filling out. With a fogged mind, Clyde pours drinks and wonders if the same song has been playing for the past hour. No one minds that bottles slip in his hand, except for a girl who took it too personally when he had to ask for her order twice and stumbled through the steps of the mix. She took a seat right by the bar and stared at him, biting her lip whenever Clyde turned in her direction. He made sure to avoid eye contact again.

There is a wave of respite as some of the patrons clear out. Clyde leans his back on the counter and crosses his arms, his prosthetic as heavy as his eyelids. Clyde now makes a point to make less conversation with the passing patrons, especially if he doesn’t recognise the face. If the accent is off – local or not. He can’t take the same risk he did with Grayson. Clyde had been lucky when he realised who she was before he decided to make it serious.

Clyde reaches up to turn the bottles on the shelves, facing the labels outward. The door of the bar taps open, he can hear cars pulling in to lot as footsteps are passing right toward the counter. A chair is scraped out from behind a table somewhere, voices greet someone new. There is a cough behind Clyde. He turns around, dropping his arms down stiffly.

“What can I get you?” Clyde asks before he can take a proper glance over the man stood on the other side of the counter, with pristine red hair and pale skin without the mark of a single freckle. His white shirt and grey slacks are slightly wrinkled like he has been wearing them for too long. He is shifts on his toes, from nerves or caffeine, and his mouth is moving. Then it’s still.

“Pardon?” Clyde stutters and leans forward.

The man’s eyebrows raise and nose bunches. “I was asking for a martini?” A British accent pulls like wire over the man’s words.

Tension pans through Clyde, cinching his jaw tight. “Oh,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you there. Long day.”

“Not to worry,” he hears the man say as he turns to make the drink.

More people gather on the stools around the bar. Clyde does not put on a show for the man with the red hair, looking down firmly at the objects passing through his hands. He doesn’t want some sort of a repetition of the night that led to the cauliflower incident. The man isn’t watching Clyde either; he is staring down to the windows where the lights of the passing cars catch on the frames. City exhaustion and responsibility are written throughout him. The last time, Clyde almost looked past it in Grayson. He had been charmed by her clear cut character; it reminded him of the girls from the military. He swears he won’t be tricked by another handsome face.

Clyde slowly turns his eyes down to the martini glass, ready to be served. He hadn’t realised how tight his jaw is until he sets down the glass and mumbles, “Here you are.” Some of the drink spills onto the counter.

The man doesn’t leave immediately despite stepping aside from the stools with the drink in hand. He looks over Clyde, one hand in the pocket of his slacks that are pinned against his waist with a thick black leather belt. He takes a sip as his eyes fixate on some point on Clyde’s body and holds back a faint grimace. Clyde doesn’t know if it’s from the drink or the black casing of his arm peeking from under the sleeve. But he knows that martinis are more for show than taste. He doesn’t feel sorry.

Clyde pours beer and mixes drinks as the red haired man drifts to a solitary table by a window. He sits with his legs crossed and stares through the glass, taking snappish, half a second glances at Clyde. He considers driving to Mellie’s tomorrow morning, to give her a warning. But the man seems more tired than victorious with the opportunity to pounce. His phone is in clear sight, lying beside the drink. Occasionally, the man prods at it, picks it up, and drops it back onto the table.

After another wave of customers, the man returns to the bar. He asks for another martini. Clyde barely pays attention to him as he serves him. He hasn’t opened his mouth in a while; his jaw is held closed so tight his teeth are starting to hurt. He is only standing because his legs are so stiff.

It’s a warm night. The air conditioning is on maximum. Sweat is itching on the back of Clyde’s neck under his hair. He won’t risk it getting stuck in the joints of his fingers to tie it up. So he keeps brushing his hair back as he makes the martini, sweat between his fingers and on the collar of his shirt.

Clyde turns to the red haired man. He is leaning against the counter in a casual way that seems wrong on him. His lips are pinched, pale skin stained purple and his eyes are pink. His stare follows Clyde’s hand that pushes aside his hair and stays on the curve of his ear and the flush of his neck.

Clyde looks aside and takes a moment longer to bring the drink. There is heat on his face, prickling behind his ears and across his scalp.

“Thank you,” the man says once he takes the glass. He continues to stare at Clyde as he tastes it.

He leaves after that drink. Clyde watches his steps on the floor of the bar, their sharp line toward the door. He can hear him walking from the porch across the gravel and dust. He thinks he does, through the sound of the people in the building and the cars in the lot.

 

The light is yellow on the ceiling of the bedroom. Cicadas and crickets are screaming a choir underneath the window. There is a commotion in a neighbours drive. A door shuts, rattling the safety chain.

Clyde is lying on his chest on the mattress, the sheets half way on his legs. His hand is by his face, fingers pressing on his lips. He is asleep.

 

  
It’s another week day when the man comes back. A different worn out shirt, tucked into off-black slacks. His face is set in hard lines and footsteps are in an automatic march. Clyde sees him, but the man doesn’t take notice until he is at the bar. His shoulders roll back from the slouch and his face drops to a blank default. Clyde stares. He really does hate being a cliché.

The man sighs. “A martini, if you don’t mind,” he says.

Clyde nods and turns away, rubbing at his lip.

Staring is a rude habit that can get you in trouble. Clyde glances up again. The man is looking away and Clyde misses his eyes following him. He can tell the man is not at his best, not without pressed lines in a uniform, without a cap to cover the sun from his eyes at a parade.

The drink in the glass is a deep purple, almost burgundy. It smells of citrus that covers the alcohol Clyde had poured. He keeps it on the other side of the bar as he reaches for a rarely used tub of fresh flowers. He arranges the rose petals on the surface of the blood orange margarita, doing his best without tweezers or a steady hand.

The flower pattern is sloppy and it shifts around the glass under the curled orange peel as Clyde brings it across to the counter where the red haired man is waiting for him. He places the glass down and turns it to the best angle.

The man looks between the glass and Clyde. “This isn’t what I asked for.”

“I know,” Clyde replies. “I thought you might like it better.” He steps back, starting to turn to the next customer. “No need to pay.”

Clyde does not watch the man. He lets himself get pulled into conversation with the local patrons, half listening. He tries to not look over their shoulders to the small table by the window, or the door that keeps on easing back and forth as it welcomes through customers.

An hour passes before Clyde finds a pause. His shoulders are bracketed with tension, feet aching to move again and do something. He keeps his eyes down as he searches for a roll of paper towels to wipe down the spills he left on the counter.

A bar stool creaks and the padding shifts. Clyde looks up as a glass slides across the timber. He reaches for the stem as pale, heat bitten fingers slip away from it.

“How about another?” says the red haired man. His stare meets Clyde’s and his brows twitch up when there is no reply.

A split second answer can either be a mistake or a chance. He might find himself in the trailer tomorrow morning with Mellie or Jimmy, explaining why they need to keep their heads low. Even though it been a whole year. Or Clyde might find himself with an opportunity, something to replace the thoughts that keep him company in the early morning.

Clyde tries a smile as he says, “Sure.”

A fresh glass is set to the side of the red haired man as Clyde starts to mix the margarita for him. He keeps himself steady by staring firmly at his work space and his hands negotiating their duties.

“How can anyone stay in a place where there are only roads and closing stores, if they aren’t in retirement, is beyond me,” mutters the man as he follows Clyde’s hands.

“But you are here,” Clyde points out.

“Yes, I guess I am. For a little while.” The difference between the man’s voice, his mannerism, and Clyde’s is so jarring is almost funny. They are the complete opposite oddities. But Clyde is too busy hanging on each word to laugh. “Maybe… Not all of it is absurd,” the man murmurs.

Clyde is shaking to glance up and see if the man is looking at him. Instead, he reaches for the flower petals before asking, “And—And how does someone find himself in a place he doesn’t really want to be?”

“I am hiding from my therapist.”

The orange peel tops the glass with yellow and pink petals. Clyde pushes across the glass with his good hand. “That’s not how therapy is supposed to work.”

The man takes the drink and a smile almost works onto his lips. “I was… Told to take a break from work until I calmed down. The therapist suggested a trip. So I took my car and drove the most remote place I could find to avoid the daily demand for updates on my ‘state’.”

Clyde watched the man immediately press the glass to his lips and take a deep swallow – like it will temper down the spill of words that he seems to have been holding back for too long. He wants to ache with him in sympathy.

“Must be an awfully important job if they care so much about you.”

“I suppose, as a Commander of the U.S. Navy.” The pride seems to press him out like iron on laundered sheets, filling him out and putting a grin on his lips.

Clyde breathes in deeply, holding onto the counter. “Might I get a name, Commander?”

A steady hand is held out toward Clyde like a salute. “Armitage Hux,” the Navy officer declares. “But I prefer ‘Hux’.”

“Clyde Logan,” he offers back and takes Hux’s hand, barely shaking it, just holding onto its cold solid weight. Then it leaves him, somehow warmer than when they first touched.

“Even your name is so American,” Hux says through the muffle of the glass when he flinches for his drink.

“And your is so English.”

Hux scoffs and straightens the front of his shirt. “Ah, correction. I am Scottish. I moved here very early on as a child.”

Clyde is stunned mannerless. “Scottish? Now, unless I have misunderstood, that would imply an accent.”

“Unless we are speaking of the upper crust of society. That accent is beaten out of us at infancy.”

Clyde opens his mouth twice to respond, but closes it and frowns, head titled to one side as he considers. He almost forgets himself until he looks back and sees Hux pressing the nail of his thumb into his bottom lip as his stare skirts the line of Clyde’s belt.

Clyde looks away and rubs the back of his neck, glad to be distracted by a customer waving for his attention.

It’s a week night, it shouldn’t be busy. It should be like the beginning of the evening, when there were only a few people scattered around the tables. Maybe one customer at the bar. But, like a curse, people just keep coming in a locust swarm.

Time lapses with the light, but Clyde doesn’t notice it. Not until there is a glass passing toward him across the counter.

“Goodnight, Clyde,” says the Commander. His fingertips stay on the stem of the glass a moment longer before stepping away from the bar.

Clyde has never been more certain of curses than when he takes the glass off the counter in the quiet bar.

A slip of paper wisps onto the floor. Clyde jerks forward to catch it, missing and kneeling down to swipe it into his palm.

It’s a crisp fifty dollar bill, folded at the middle. Clyde turns it over. Disappointingly pristine.

Someone is slapping their palm on the bar’s counter. Clyde pushes the note into the back pocket of his jeans and stands.

 

  
The heat blisters the roads, cooking the grass and leaves yellow. The muggy mornings have sedated Clyde into sleep; the air feels shallow, unbearable to breathe.

Clyde sleeps through two of his alarms before getting up in a rush. He almost falls asleep over breakfast before crawling to get dressed and make sure he isn’t wearing different shoes. His arm feels like it’s dragging on the floor, scraping the boards with branch fingertips. But he has combed his hair, brushed his teeth, closed the windows. Still, something is off.

Clyde isn’t sure what it is until he is at work, standing at the front door of Duck Tape, picking the keys off the floor after letting them drop through his fingers. There is a faint crack of denim being stretched too tight, the groaning of stitches and the pinching of fabric on Clyde’s thighs and ass.

He straightens and frowns as he shifts his stiff legs toward the door, looking down at the hems that are too high on his ankles above the boots. He can already feel the waistband sliding down his ass, bunching his underwear. It must be the pair of jeans that got thrown into the wrong pile of laundry. It’s too late to change anything.

The music from the jukebox carries the staff through the hours before opening, covering the sound of the frantic insects. Anxiety lies like a stone in Clyde’s stomach, shaking on the currents of the water. He almost reaches for the bottles.

The door opens and the patrons come through, with their own conversations and concerns. Clyde watches the tables fill out with familiar faces, the same voices. It’s another week day night that passes with the slugging of cold drinks in glasses. The most excitement they get is the neon on the windows glitching out and a truck stalling in the lot which gets going after being attacked by a band of handy men.

Clyde swallows his disappointment and pretends it’s relief. Lights are dipping on the bottles overhead, songs fade in and out through the room. Clyde licks his teeth to pry them from the clench they had fixed themselves in.

The airless, humid room tightens and collapses over Clyde when he sees the door open. The way Hux walks through his condescending in its nature, he just doesn’t care who surrounds him; he has a purpose above them. It makes Clyde burn in his skin when he realises that he is the Commander’s target.

The heat has gotten to him too; there is pink on Hux’s skin and his auburn hair sticks to it as he brushes his fringe aside. He is dressed in all black, sleeves of the shirt rolled to his elbows to show the steel wire muscles of his forearms. Clyde sways back when Hux sits down at the bar, breathing in the cool recycled air that blows down to the counter.

Someone is waving for Clyde and he has to excuse himself from Hux’s attention. The Commander’s jaw shifts on the hinge as his eyes move down Clyde’s back, his ass, toward his thighs. He doesn’t look away despite being caught. Clyde rolls his shoulders to avoid shivering and pulls up his jeans, trying keep his face still as he approaches the customer.

It’s a little while before Clyde gets the chance to approach Hux again. He looks up at him briefly, biting down on a smile, and doesn’t give him a chance to speak as he reaches for a glass. He mixes sweet syrups and liquor, trying to be exceptionally carefully, avoiding using his prosthetic hand.

Someone tries to shoulder around Hux, snap for Clyde’s attention. He doesn’t want to be rude, so he stares down at the aged man with a group at his elbow that Clyde probably should recognise but fails to. The man has enough virtue to leave with no more than a dirty look.

Hux doesn’t look aside from Clyde. He licks his lips after taking a taste of the drink and looks up, showing his pale neck against the black collar of his shirt.

Clyde is shaking in his skin as he squeezes together his lips and suppresses every urge to lean over the counter and taste Hux’s mouth. He doesn’t notice the patrons waiting to be served until Hux looks aside while taking a sip, guiding Clyde to look behind himself.

There is a burn under Clyde’s skin as he scatters to take the orders. He tries to remain professional, ignore the itch at the base of his back that is a stare, leisurely following him in the narrow space behind the bar as he pulls up the waistband of his cursed jeans. Clyde feels like a teenager again, unsure what to do with the attention. He has lost his reason. There is just a high with the knowledge that Hux is staring at him.

A part of Clyde still hates it that he is puffing himself up in front of Hux, trying to put on a show for the British stranger as he serves customers. He gets cocky and ignores the paranoia that had left him twitching in bed with every passing screech of a car on the road outside of his house.

Well aware of the tight jeans beginning to pinch on his thighs and ass, Clyde walks past the counter opposite Hux, putting purpose behind his steps in hopes of catching Hux’s eye. But then, the heel of his boot slips in a spill that has dried out into a sticky patch and Clyde’s leg jerks forward. He pulls his foot back to counteract the misstep, but finds himself over balanced and throws out his good hand to grasp the counter and stop himself from falling onto his knees.

Clyde, red faced with his breath caught in his throat, is bent forward with his face hanging over the floor. His shirt is untucked and the stitches of his jeans are creaking. He swallows against the clump in his throat. He is scared to shift; one twitch and he might just find his face in one of the sticky spills.

A glass squeaks in someone’s hand like a screech of teeth. Hux is sat at the counter. Clyde is in his direct view – still like if he doesn’t shift Hux won’t see him.

There is a crate of bottled beer under the bar that got shoved aside and never picked up again. Clyde stares at the brown glass under a coat of dust and grabs for it. He stumbles as he lifts the crate and straightens out, gritting his teeth past the ache in his knees and back.

Clyde’s temples are throbbing, sweat is itching on his skin, tickling as it runs down his neck. He leans against the counter after setting down the crate and brushes back his hair like blood isn’t pulsing in his ears.

With a thudding at the base of his throat, Clyde turns to look over his shoulder. Hux is a point of clarity in the room, between the occupied stools and the figures shifting under the orange lamps. He is smiling behind the glass in his hand. It’s strained, like he doesn’t want to show how soft his face can be.

Hux raises his glass slightly and says, “Thank you, for the view.” There is colour on his pale face, his knuckles are white on the glass.

Every step is a bad decision as Clyde stumbles toward Hux. He doesn’t say anything as he puts his hand on the edge bar, fingers curled in, but twitching to open as Hux sets down the glass.

“I wonder,” says Hux, leaning forward, “Could you give me a better one?”

Clyde stares at the wet shine of Hux’s lips, where the alcohol has sunk into the cracks. There are marks of old scars on his chin and his eyes are almost too pale – lost in the washed out tones of his skin, except for his pupils that stand out like points of void.

A cold touch on Clyde’s knuckles almost makes him jerk his hand off the counter. Hux’s fingers slip back onto the timber as Clyde presses his palm flat onto the surface.

Clyde slowly slides his hand toward Hux’s. Their fingertips touch and Clyde is so numb with shock he barely feels it. Hux continues with the movement when Clyde hesitates, covering his hand, pushing his thumb under Clyde’s fingers – locking them together.

Clyde tries to turn up his palm, take Hux’s hand into his, but loses contact when Hux pulls away. He thinks they are done; Hux has had his game. But Hux puts his hand around Clyde’s wrist, curling his fingers around to press on the pulse and stroke the skin with his thumb. Clyde’s eyes are fixed on Hux’s hand.

“So?” Hux squeezes Clyde’s wrist, urging him to look up. “I will meet you outside, when this place is empty.”

Clyde’s throat is dry, he thinks he will choke if he tries to speak. He isn’t sure what Hux means, but he is too wired, too hyper in his skin to question it. He just nods and tries not to whimper when Hux pulls back his hand and stands from the bar.

Clyde leans his elbows on the counter when Hux walks away and forces a hand through his hair. His shirt pulls out of the waistband of his jeans again, the collar sitting askew. He feels a mess, but he barely cares.

Clyde turns aside to push away from the bar and catches a woman staring at him. She must have caught the tail end of the conversation when she came to order from the bar. Here mouth has dropped open while her eyebrows are starting to scratch the bleached hairline.

“Yes, ma’am?” Clyde asks. His shoulders are squared forward, the line of his jaw uneven. “May I help?”

The woman’s eyes skitter aside as she takes a heavy drag of air and sighs before walking away.

  
The music is gone from the bar. A murmur of insects comes through the windows left open to air out the sticky humidity left behind by the passing crowds. Clyde is stood against the counter, already done with the closing but unwilling to move. Only half of the lights are still on. He excused everyone out, promising he will lock up. It’s almost two in the morning.

Clyde shuffles on stiff feet toward the door and presses down on the handle. The hinges swing on their own accord and Clyde steps out, haloed by the dim lights of the bar. He shudders, breathing in the dry night air as he looks down at the dark parking lot.

There is an empty urge stuck in Clyde’s throat as the shadows of cars zip on the road. He doesn’t know what to do with it as it pushes him to search, to call out, revert the entire night.

A fly killer lamp sparks somewhere under the over hang, breaking through the cacophony of cicadas. The rail of the porch squeaks and Clyde jerks back to step behind the threshold when he sees a figure leaning on the crumbling timber.

The amber of Hux’s hair seems almost too dark for it to be him, skin too pale. The lights of the neon signs in the windows catch on the sweat on his temples, the curve of his neck. Everything is too strange in the night air, but Clyde waits for him in the threshold of the door.

Hux stares at Clyde, dragging his eyes over every curve of Clyde’s body without shame. He doesn’t look away when Clyde meets his stare.

“I am not a very patient man, Clyde,” Hux tells him. “I don’t like waiting for something I want. So if there is a misunderstanding, I will need you to tell me now.”

Clyde watches Hux step forward, saying nothing as Hux reaches up. His thumb is on Clyde’s lip, fist perching up his chin. Clyde’s jaw is clenched tight. He can’t look away from Hux.

Clyde jolts, but it’s Hux who moves. He kisses Clyde, holding him close by the chin. They are comfortably matched in height and Clyde doesn’t know what to do; Hux is pressing into him, palming his jaw as he licks over his clenched teeth. Hux’s nose presses against his cheek as he turns his head and Clyde shudders, breathing out slowly against Hux’s skin, dropping his shoulders and the fists he raised as he tried to convince himself the delusion won’t break if he touches Hux.

Kissing Clyde once more, Hux leans away. His thumb brushes on his cheek, the coarse hair of his stubble, and pinches his chin. “How am I meant to let go of you now?”

Clyde moans and stumbles forward into Hux’s space, hands raised to his chest. Hux holds him up by the shoulders and smiles, urging him back toward the doorway.

“Come,” Hux tells him. “I don’t want anyone else getting a sight.” He pushes Clyde back into the bar and closes the door behind them.

In the low light, Clyde finds it in himself to put his hands on Hux. He takes him by the waist, barely touching, while Hux strokes his neck and pushes aside his hair. Somehow, his touch finds Clyde’s lips again and, this time, he kisses the fingertips. Hux replaces them with his mouth as he tastes Clyde’s tongue, licking in with gentle laps.

A thin squeak leaves Clyde when he feels hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He jerks awkwardly at the touch, but leans back into the kiss as he feels Hux continue palming his ass – squeezing and pinching through the denim.

Hux grins as he yanks out Clyde’s shirt that was struggling to sit behind the belt and pushes his hand up to feel the burning skin. “The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers to Clyde as he squeezes his bare hips.

“Don’t say that,” Clyde mumbles, trying to focus on Hux’s eyes as he twitches from the feeling of a hand creeping up his back.

Hux pushes up the hem of Clyde’s shirt, showing the soft pale line of his waist and holds it between his spread hands. “And why not? You don’t want me to tell the truth?”

Clyde can’t help it: he closes his eyes and whimpers as thumbs massage his stomach. His thighs are spreading slightly, hips shifting forward. He leans in, eyes still closed, and trusts Hux to catch his lips. He whimpers when he is kissed and drops his arms onto Hux’s shoulders.

Pushing aside Clyde’s hair, Hux bites his ear, licking the curve. Clyde feels weak, swooning like a teenager, tripping on nothing as his arms drag on Hux’s neck. Their knees hit together, Clyde’s feet drag on the floor. But Hux holds him, shushing when Clyde tries to apologise.

Bracing his arms around Clyde, Hux walks him back, toward the booths in the view of the bar. Instead of dropping Clyde into the seat, Hux turns and pulls Clyde down in the same moment as he sits on the edge of the padded bench, urging him into a straddle on his thighs. Clyde almost falls back, at loss from the feeling of Hux’s body through clothing, but he is held tight.

“Now—Let me look at you,” Hux says as he rights Clyde on his lap. “I didn’t know how long I would have to make eyes at you to have something going. Or if it would ever even happen.”

Clyde’s heavy breathing is muffling Hux’s words, the toes of his boots are scraping on the floor. He can’t choose between holding onto Hux’s shoulder and the backrest.

“Oh, this can’t be comfortable.” Hux is pushing up the sleeve of Clyde’s arm – the one with the carbon fibre hand, tethered to a stump of pink. “Let me help you with that,” Hux urges.

Clyde almost recoils until he sees Hux stroke the hand, thumbing the fingers like it’s to soothe him. He sits stock frozen, letting his weight rest on Hux.

“Wa—Wait.” Clyde almost pushes Hux’s hands away, but doesn’t. “Wait. If you— It will be difficult for me to move around. To—“ He breaks off as Hux stares, still holding onto the hand.

“You won’t be able to hold yourself up?” Hux smiles. “Sweetheart, I’ll do that for you. Now, come, this must be chafing.”

Clyde mumbles directions in removing the hand. The sleeve drops over the stump as Hux sets aside the prosthetic. He rubs his hands down Clyde’s arms before pulling him in by the waist, hitching him up to sit against his hips.

Before Clyde can over think, Hux kisses him and pushes his hands down the back of his jeans. Not his pockets, but past the belt and waistband, reaching to take hems of his shorts to pull them up tight, creating an tight ache of friction against his cock. Clyde leans his elbows on Hux’s shoulders as he is instructed between the kisses and rocks down against his bunched underwear.

“So beautiful,” Hux mutters and licks the spit dripping of Clyde’s red lip. “You are so precious like this.” He squeezes Clyde’s ass, massaging it in his palms. “I want to keep you.”

Clyde is surprised by the strength Hux has in his wiry arms, it’s enough to keep him tight against Hux’s lap, positioning him accordingly. Hux laughs against his lips when he holds Clyde by the waist and pushes a hand down the front of his jeans, undoing the belt, squeezing a breathless grunt from him as he takes Clyde’s cock into his hand.

“Every part of you is beautiful, isn’t it,” Hux almost laughs, breathless.

Clyde follows Hux’s eyes, down between them, and sees Hux’s pale fist with red finger tips, stroking his cock. The mellow light deepens the shadow and catches on the wet streaks running down Hux’s fingers as they wrap around the head of his cock, stroking down slowly with a reverence that makes Clyde ache. His jaw is hanging stiff, his eyes are watering.

“My beautiful baby,” Hux whispers. “I’m so glad I found you.” He licks across Clyde’s open mouth, tasting inside, pulling him forward with the touch.

Hux pushes up the front of Clyde’s shirt to kiss his chest and scrape raised red marks with his teeth. He bites on a nipple as he strokes Clyde’s cock, making him hiss and squirm closer. There is colour prickling Hux’s face, sweat staining the collar of his shirt as he lifts his hips against Clyde’s.

Carefully leaning down, Clyde tastes the salt on Hux’s neck. He breathes in the smell of his skin as Hux offers to him the vulnerable curve of his throat with the grain of a stubble. His hand is giving up squeezing Clyde’s cock as he clings onto his waist and bites on the whimpers Clyde feels under his lips with the jumps of muscles in his neck.

He wants to say something, thank Hux in some way, but he doesn’t get the chance as Hux is urging him up onto his buckling feet. Hux stays seated as he turns Clyde around and pulls on the waistband of his jeans. The shrunk denim doesn’t give easily, squeezing Clyde’s hips and ass when Hux drags it down to his thighs with rough force.

Clyde stares at his feet as Hux leans down and unties the laces of his boots. He steps out of them and the grip of his sweat stained jeans. Clyde stands in underwear and socks like a child that had rolled in dirt, waiting to be scolded. Except, he can’t wait for the reprimand.

Hux drags Clyde by his waist onto his lap, back to his chest. He pushes his hands down the waistband of Clyde’s shorts, palming his hips, making him groan as he pinches the thin skin between his groin and thigh. Clyde shivers and bites on his lip as Hux scratches his hip, so deliciously close to his dick.

“Now, if you don’t mind, darling.” Clyde watches Hux’s hands play with the stretched fabric of his underwear, feeling the words spoken against his neck. “I would like to know how you feel around my cock while you sit on my lap. Would you like that?”

Clyde nods as he whimpers, “Please.” His legs are twitching to spread wider for Hux’s hands, for him to climb between them. “Please—“

Hux is kissing his neck, palming down his shorts to stroke his cock. The girth of it is so obscene, red and purple in his pale fist. Clyde grips Hux’s other arm that holds him across the chest. He is panting, squirming as Hux presses bites as far as the collar of his shirt will allow.

They struggle together to push Clyde’s underwear down his weak legs. Hux then pulls him behind the booth’s table, pressing on his back to push his chest onto the surface while he kneels on the seat. His legs are open around Hux’s lap, calves uncomfortably compresses against the backrest. Clyde is too lost in the floating cloud of his mind to be afraid of how exposed he is, spread out on the table with his ass toward Hux. His shirt hangs only just low enough to retain a scrap of decency, but Hux pushes that aside too, opening him up like a served meal.

The table top is fogging under Clyde’s heaving as he droops forward uselessly while Hux spreads his thighs, massaging them with his wide palms. A bite falls onto Clyde’s tailbone, pulling the skin before Hux drags his lips down to the right cheek of his ass. Hux’s breathing is shuddering as he presses kisses and nips, deliriously trying to cover as much skin as possible.

Clyde’s chest is spasming with the effort to breathe, to keep calm as his legs twitch and jerk. Hux’s hands are squeezing his stomach, reaching up his shirt to pinch his chest. Then, the touch is gone and Clyde can hear Hux fumbling with the pockets of his slacks. Foil and plastic crinkles, Hux is petting his thigh as he leans over.

“How do you feel, darling?” Hux sounds breathless, like he is the one of the table.

Clyde reaches back and blindly tries to grab for Hux’s hand. It is readily given to him and Clyde pulls it up to his mouth. He licks the damp palm and pushes two of Hux’s fingers into his mouth. He sucks on them as Hux laughs. He curls his fingers on Clyde’s tongue and pushes them deeper, fucking his mouth.

With a kiss on Clyde’s back, Hux pulls away his hand. Clyde curls his arms around his head and pushes his ass back. Foil tears and he feels the wet pads of fingers on his ass, brushing just barely, from his cock to his hole. It really takes no effort to push a finger inside him; Clyde has been fucking himself for the past week with his fingers, sometimes just to get off or to come again and again until it hurts and he just wants to sleep.

Still, Clyde whines when he feels the palm of Hux’s hand press against his ass. Clyde pushes his face into the table and squeezes his hand into a fist as Hux fucks him with the finger, letting lube run down to his cock and drip onto the edge of the seat. Hux kisses his back and holds Clyde close with a hand on his waist as he squirms.

A smell of sweat pushes onto Clyde as Hux stands and lowers his chest to Clyde’s back. He presses his face to the damp clumps of Clyde’s hair, breathing deeply, as he pushes a second finger into him. Hux’s cock is heavy in his slacks, resting against Clyde’s ass, hips twitching to grind on him.

“Have you been playing with yourself?” Hux’s laboured voice hisses against Clyde’s ear. “Who has been opening you up for their cock? I thought I would have to spend the night, slowly working you to relax. But my baby is ready for me.”

Clyde swallows on a hiccup. His tongue is thick as he slurs, “Jus’ me—“ He swallows again. His head is too light, swaying too much. “I was—Thinking ‘bout you.”

Hux’s weight drops onto Clyde as he moans against his neck. His hands, now free, scratch on the lacquered timber.

Clyde is gripped by his waist and lifted from the table. Hux grinds the weight of his cock against Clyde’s bare ass while he kisses him, turning his face by the jaw. He feels owned by Hux, possessed by the safety of his grip. He gives into the kiss freely and latches onto the warmth of Hux’s mouth.

For the moment their lips are apart, Clyde whispers, “Fuck me, please.”

Holding Clyde with one arm around his waist while he undoes the belt of his slacks, Hux breathes against his ear, “Are you ready?” There is a shudder in his voice. “I know we should have taken longer—Fuck. Should have, like you deserve. But are you ready?”

“Yes—Yes, please,” Clyde manages to groan as he is seated back on Hux’s thighs, his legs spread wide, facing out into the bar as Hux lounges on the edge of the seat.

Hux pulls Clyde back toward his chest, the open buckled of his belt clicks as the zipper scratches the cheeks of Clyde’s ass. “So polite,” he says and then brushes his hands down from Clyde’s hips to his knees. “These thighs can’t be for nothing. So, why don’t you show me how you use them?”

Clyde’s legs are shaking as he lifts himself up with one hand. He feels Hux push the head of his cock against his hole, rubbing the lube covered latex across the skin. Breathing out slowly, Clyde closes his eyes and presses down. He bites on his tongue when he feels Hux’s cock push into him, forcing his thighs to open wider and his hips ache.

Clyde is whimpering; his arm is trembling as he holds onto the backrest of the padded bench. There are hands on his hips and shushes brush on his ear as Hux tries to comfort. Clyde drops onto Hux’s lap and groans, squirming as he tenses around the width of Hux’s cock spreading him open. He is glad that he had gotten into the habit of fucking himself with four fingers, none too gently.

“So beautiful—Look how good you are for me.” Hux pushes his hands under Clyde’s shirt to squeeze his chest, make his back arch. Clyde’s skin is flushed, from his face to his groin. He is trying not to watch Hux’s hands come down to his cock, stroke it from the base covered in the black curls of sweat damp hair to the red curve. He squirms, squeezing on Hux’s cock to feel the burn of the weight inside him.

“Come on.” Hux pats Clyde on the hip. “Show me how good my baby is.” He kisses Clyde’s neck, his lips damp on his feverish neck.

Clyde uses his elbows for purchase as he lifts himself up, rolling his hips under Hux’s hands that seem to praise him. Hux leads him down as he reseats himself on his dick, grinding in tight circles.

“Beautiful,” Hux whispers. “I’ve never seen—felt anything better—than you, you gorgeous thing.” He turns Clyde by the jaw when he bounces his hips, fucking himself on Hux’s flushed, thick cock. “You lovely soft thing, made to be held and fucked.”

Clyde almost laughs as he blushes and turns away. But Hux cups his chin and kisses him on the lips.

“What? You are,” he tells Clyde. “Your body is beautiful, with your ass all open for me to fuck.”

Clyde stares at him with his mouth dropped slack. He feels dumb with the need to keep fucking himself on Hux’s cock as grinds his hips and squeezes his thighs in lose movements, somehow trying to get it to tease his prostate. It’s a giddy, drunk feeling that takes over Clyde. He is blind with it and doesn’t know what to do. He whines for a kiss and grins when he receives it. Soon, he is out of breath and drops back in a twitching slump.

Hux pulls his fingers through Clyde’s hair as he noses his jaw. “Tired?” he mumbles.

Clyde just groans and rubs his face against Hux’s hair in return.

Held by arms around his waist, Clyde is lifted from Hux’s cock and almost topples. He is guided to lie back on the end of the table, legs spread to the open bar. He drops like a dead weight, head spinning with the ceiling fans as his eyes water when he sees Hux lean over him. He is so flushed Clyde could assume he has a fever.

“Put your legs up for me,” Hux tells him, picking up Clyde’s legs behind the knees, helping him to lift his socket feet onto the table.

Clyde shuffles back to make more space, scrabbling to do as Hux instructed. He struggles until Hux leans down and kisses him, moaning into Clyde’s mouth. They are both looking down when Hux pushes his cock back inside Clyde, spreading his ass open with his hands, dripping lube onto the table. Clyde flushes; he will have to clean that later – once they are dressed again and Hux is on his way.

Clyde’s back spasms and legs jerk when Hux’s hips meet his ass. He is shuddering as he tries to spread his legs wider, but Hux presses them open for him by the knees. Hux uses Clyde’s thighs for purchase as he pulls back an draws Clyde onto his cock, fucking him with feverish lethargy.

Clyde’s hand is fisted in the collar of his shirt, arms held tight against his chest as he feels himself shift on the table with Hux’s thrusts. He has never felt as filthy, thrown across the table, letting a man between his legs for flirting with him. He will won’t look at the booths of the bar without seeing the memory of today staining them.

Hux has his teeth caught on Clyde’s lip, pulling it as he pushes onto him, grinding Clyde into the timber, letting him feel the open zipper of his trousers scratch his ass. He is working hard to make sure Clyde is thoroughly fucked, left with nothing but the thoughts of the cock inside him.

The floorboards are creaking, the bolts of the table are barely holding. Clyde is gasping against Hux’s mouth, too lost from sense to feel ridiculous as he watches his own feet bob over Hux’s shoulders. He is too warm, yet not warm enough. Hux’s teeth are on his neck, biting as Clyde clenches on his cock and feels the heat of an orgasm pulse in his stomach. He is keening, clinging onto Hux’s shoulder, legs twitching as he tries to keep him inside as deep as possible. Keep the thud of warmth secure inside.

A pulse is throbbing inside Clyde’s head as Hux drops his legs and pulls his arms around Clyde as he fucks him. Clyde is limp, useless and whimpering as Hux uses his body, holding him down to the table that shakes. Clyde lets him.

The floor is scraped by the soles of Hux’s shoes as he tenses over Clyde, holding him in the curl of his arms as he presses the tight line of his lips against his jaw. Clyde can feel him twitch as he grinds deeply against his ass, shifting Clyde up the table until his back hurts and the sweat soaked shirt chafes his armpits and neck. Hux jerks forward twice more, making Clyde’s head thump on the table. Then, Hux is still.

A kiss is pressed to Clyde’s lips, with bites and licks that are so lazy he can imagine they are in bed together. But Hux pulls away and he can feel the bite of the table’s edge on his thighs. Hux is brushing his hands down Clyde’s legs, squeezing his knees and ankles as he slowly pulls out.

Another kiss is left on Clyde’s chest. He presses on the spot to distract himself as the head of Hux’s cock pulls out of his hole and lube drips from his ass. Tension drops from Clyde like a stone as he leans into the table, breathing hard.

Hux is wiping the sweat from his face with the front of his shirt, showing his soft pale stomach as he pulls up the fabric. If Clyde had any strength left, he would sit up from the table and inch up the shirt, to see Hux’s chest, the pale skin with purple veins. He wants to return to the favour of the kisses.

The black fabric drops back over Hux’s chest. He is too breathless to try to speak. He pulls off the condom and drags his underwear over his cock, over the mess of sweat and lube. The freely hanging belt buckles clacks against Hux’s hips as he drops the condom into the waste basket behind the bar counter and wads up paper towels he finds lying in an unspooling roll.

He is still saying nothing as he pulls Clyde up by his forearms, seats him straight on the edge of the table and wipes the lube off his thighs and the cum on his stomach with the paper towels. Clyde mutters a ‘thank you’ as his socked feet touch the floor.

Hux steps back, buckling his belt pushing down his shirt into the waistband. Clyde can faintly see the stains of sweat on his shirt and on the front of his trousers. Otherwise, he only needs to brush back his hair to look as though he took a walk on a hot summers night.

The bar is absurdly quiet. There isn’t a dent of sound but the shuffling of clothing as Clyde waddles to pick up his jeans. He feels Hux staring when he tries to pull the trouser legs up one handed. It is easy enough to get them to his knees, but the tight denim refuses to hold up on his thighs.

Clyde flushes when he hears Hux clear his throat and looks over his shoulder. Hux isn’t better off; his cheeks have flushed near purple, being pale as he is, while he watches Clyde’s thighs strain the denim. Hux licks his teeth and bites on his lips when Clyde huffs and tries again, almost getting the jeans up to his ass with his one hand. He feels lube run down his thighs from his ass, sticking to his skin as he shifts and struggles to yank up the jeans. Clyde knows he is red all the way down to his neck, but it’s not truly out of embarrassment.

“Come here, darling,” Hux murmurs as he steps up behind Clyde and takes the waistband of his jeans. “I shouldn’t have left you like that — but you just look so lovely.”

Clyde lets Hux dress him, do up his jeans with the button tight against his stomach, lace up his boots while kneeling at Clyde’s feet. Hux adjusts the hems, even tucks in his shirt and tries to straighten the collar. Clyde is red in the face again when Hux stands and looks over him. But it isn’t so much out of arousal.

A tight feeling passes up Clyde’s throat, becoming thicker and thicker as it climbs into his mouth. He chokes and hiccups as his face becomes hotter. Clyde looks down at his feet, hanging hair over his face. His shoulders are hitching, shaking.

“Clyde—Are you crying?”

There is a hand on his shoulder, coming to his neck, to tilt up his chin. Clyde turns away – his face pinches with an ache.

Hux steps closer. Clyde watches his boots in the low light as Hux whispers his name.

“Am sorry—“ Clyde mutters and tries to lean away from Hux’s hands. The Commander just needs to dust himself off and he is ready to leave. He took what he wanted, he has his car parked outside. Tomorrow morning he will check out of his hotel of wherever he is staying and cross the state lines, leaving the dusty roads of West Virginia. Clyde will just have a memory and nights without sleep.

“Clyde, don’t,” Hux says as he leans in, pushing aside Clyde’s hair, and finally kisses him, holding his face between his hands. “Don’t be sorry. But—Why?”

Clyde can’t open his eyes, or his mouth to speak. But he kisses Hux again, covering a wrist with his hand. He can feel Hux’s smile when he presses their lips together, just for the contact, to have Hux’s breathing brush on his skin. Hux kisses the line of his stubble, nips skin, and presses his lips to Clyde’s cheek.

“I don’t want to make you cry, darling,” Hux tells him. “I don’t want to be the cause of it.”

Clyde’s stomach hurts, his face burns, his legs are giving out. He drops his head onto Hux’s shoulders, swallows the thickness at the back of his throat. He is still holding onto Hux’s wrist when he looks up and asks, “Come home with me?”

Hux doesn’t pull back, neither does he reply. He is just holding Clyde with his hands cupped under his jaw. Then, he presses a kiss to the corner of Clyde’s mouth before asking, “Is that what you want?”

Clyde is looking at the red prickling Hux’s face, the bruises under his eyes. He must be barely sleeping, too. “Do you?” he asks.

After a moment, Hux nods. “Please.” Then, quickly, “Don’t you dare think I have yet had enough of you.”

Clyde smiles, in the shadow of his hair under the mellow lights.

 

The air is shaking with the thrumming insects outside of the open window. The ceiling fan is spinning, scattering the hot air in waves. They forgot to turn the radio off, after speaking over drinks, with Clyde half in Hux’s lap on the couch.

Now, he is sleeping under Hux’s arm, face against his chest. Their bare legs are pressed together under the covers. The pillows are sliding off the bed, Hux is snoring with a hand over his face. Clyde is deep asleep.

 

 

 


End file.
